


Succor

by Wicked_Seraph



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Allag Fanboy Meets Allag Senpai, Jolly Misdirection, Just Exarch Things: Watching Your Beloved Warrior of Light with The Game's Antagonist, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-11
Updated: 2020-11-11
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:48:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27501823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wicked_Seraph/pseuds/Wicked_Seraph
Summary: The Ascian couldn’t be trusted as far as he could be thrown — none of their lot could. Except, he learned, the Ascian never lied.So what was this strange song-and-dance, woven by tea and an unspoken, mutual fondness for observing their Warrior in the Scrying Glass?[Originally published inLux et Umbra.]
Relationships: Solus zos Galvus | Emet-Selch/G'raha Tia | Crystal Exarch
Comments: 2
Kudos: 27





	Succor

Emet-Selch, he learned, was contradictions nestled within contradictions, who took joy in a closely-guarded secret perhaps more than anything else.

At first, the Exarch assumed that it was the typical relish of deceit. Men loved secrets, after all, loved nurturing their lies and misdirection more than anything in the world. Decades spent digging through often-intentionally conflicting accounts on everything from Allag to the nature of aether itself had left him bitter, ears flat and tail thrashing helplessly in frustration.

Emet-Selch, eyes narrowed in a rare display of consideration, had but to glance at the notes the Exarch had written on countless scattered papers before declaring them “patently misguided”. 

A lie, of course. Surely. The Ascian couldn’t be trusted as far as he could be thrown — none of their lot could. 

Except, he learned, the Ascian never lied. He could not be described as  _ honest,  _ lips quirked as if daring the Exarch to ask what he was withholding. Yet more than once, the Exarch had been caught fumbling with the Scrying Glass, unable to locate the aether trail of the Warrior of Light; more than once, Emet-Selch had slyly suggested approximate coordinates or re-calibrations, almost — almost — managing to hide the knowing smirk on his face. 

None of the Ascian’s suggestions had been wrong. 

Without fail, every single time, he was able to relocate the Warrior of Light with only minimal teasing. The Ascian seemed to know the Crystal Tower better than he himself did, possessed of an oddly intimate knowledge of its machinery and design.

There was no reason for Emet-Selch to help him — if anything, it would have been more logical to stand idly in the background and watch him fumble. But there was a rare glimmer in his eyes when he explained a mechanism or tenet of aetherology — as though he’d been waiting to be asked, as though it’d burned his tongue to keep silent.

The Exarch didn’t like to think about the implications of earning an Ascian’s knowledge, about not knowing whether it was a sign of respect or fond contempt, the way one might regard a kitten. Was he being told because he was worthy of knowing, or because such knowledge amounted to little more than inconsequential crumbs? To be found wanting rankled.

_ But if these were crumbs, he would have told me _ , he mused.  _ Few things please him more than condescension _ . 

So what was this strange song-and-dance, woven by tea and an unspoken, mutual fondness for observing their Warrior in the Scrying Glass? Emet-Selch never demanded an explanation, nor an apology, and so the Exarch refused to provide one, instead offering refreshment in as casual a show of hospitality as he could.

Damnably neutral as always, the Ascian never insulted nor complimented the offering — though, the Exarch noted proudly, there was a rare smile on Emet-Selch’s face when he recognized one of the Exarch’s tea blends made from herbs and fruits that only sprouted in Garlean soil. 

“Why?” the Exarch finally asked. 

In lieu of a reply, Emet-Selch took a long sip of tea, eyebrow raised inquisitively. 

The Exarch sighed; he could feel his ears flatten beneath his cowl. “Why give me this knowledge? Our goals differ; helping me could only ever serve to impede you.”

Emet-Selch smiled in the damnably fond way of his that made something warm and molten trickle in the Exarch’s belly — like wine, he thought, but denser. Sweeter. And that  _ something _ spread in a way that wine didn’t.

“I answer the questions that serve no ulterior motive. To ask me about the machinations of your own Tower—” a quick twist of the lips, savoring an irony the Exarch could not begin to decipher — “does not work against my own machinations, and thus I see no reason to refuse your inquiry.” 

“Sharing knowledge for the sake of knowledge, then. How very noble of you,” he replied. And he meant it. How easy it would have been to misdirect or outright lie, to safeguard the knowledge like a wyrm guarding its clutch.

“Precisely. A genuine request warrants succor. It would be cruel to refuse, don’t you agree?”

* * *

“What was their name?"

The question was barely audible above the drone of electricity and the womblike rumble of the ocean surrounding them.

"Come again?"

"What was their name?"

"Who?"

The Exarch smiled humorlessly, with something approaching wickedness in his expression.

"Drop the pretense; neither my eyes nor ears are injured. One of these shades knew you; it was the only one whom you afforded any attention whilst you dragged me here. That could only mean one thing... so won't you afford me the courtesy of at least telling me their name? 

There was something satisfying about seeing the Ascian’s composed features contort into something less flattering. In the amber glow of candlelight, his strange eyes — the color of weak tea, he thought, or perhaps parched dandelions — looked closer to flames. With a gulp, the Exarch realized how such tepid comparisons had dulled his instincts. The sharpness of Emet-Selch’s glare made his fur stand on end.

"You've not earned such knowledge,” Emet-Selch snarled.

"Oh? How disappointing to be found wanting. And what would change your mind?"

It was a dangerous gambit; to attempt to appeal to an Ascian's base instincts was unlikely to do more than incense them. He had little and less to lose, and he would be lying if he said that his interests were merely strategic. 

Emet-Selch regarded him for only a moment.

"Ah, but you play the fool well. Your heart is racing... G'raha Tia."

Said heart stuttered.

"H-How did you—?"

"I  _ created _ Allag. Did you think I could not find out who would be foolish enough to lock himself within the Tower? Your comrades hid your tracks poorly."

"I—"

"Even now, these comrades walk among us, ignorant of the countenance hidden behind cowl and crystal. How it would break their hearts to know that you deign them unworthy of knowing whom they serve, whom they've traveled and broken bread with."

"Speak plain, Ascian. What is it that you want?"

"First you demand that I loosen my tongue — and now that I have, you want me to quell it? Such a fickle —"

His next words were swallowed by eager lips, chapped and clearly unaccustomed to such gestures. G'raha Tia knew that he had only managed to broach the gap between them because Emet-Selch had allowed him to, because his curiosity had won out over disgust.

"A clever tongue I would rather see put to different use," he murmured.

"Did you truly think this would work?" Emet-Selch asked, unable to stopper a short bark of laughter. 

"To alter the course of events transpiring? Of course not. To satisfy my own curiosity? That depends on you." 

"Coquetry does not suit you, Exarch."

"That it doesn't," G'raha Tia agreed. "Recklessness is more my forte. I cannot feign the beating of my heart anymore than I can force flushing or breathlessness or —"

"Very well, then. An genuine request warrants succor. And you shall have it,  _ G’raha _ .”


End file.
